


On the House

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: Shawshank Redemption - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, One Shot, Prison, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21831397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: Red and Andy share a smoke in the yard.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	On the House

**Author's Note:**

> When reading, remember to add in Morgan Freeman's dramatic pauses.

This was somewhere between acquaintance and friend. A time when I’d acknowledge him with an inclination of the head, but wouldn’t approach him. I stayed in my circle of fellas, tossing a baseball, and he stayed on the fringes of the yard, hands in his pockets. He had that kicked-dog look to him more often. I wasn’t unsympathetic to his plights, but after so long in Shawshank, I found it harder and harder to care. 

I’d seen boys no older than twenty be torn apart behind these walls; watched them become husks of themselves, shoveling food into their mouths like it was a chore. When I’d first arrived, I comforted myself with the knowledge that they were criminals, and deserved every kick they got. Of course, it ain’t that simple anymore. For years I existed in a gray haze, wanting to do something, _anything_ , yet never getting off my ass.

Until Andy. I never did thank him for that. Getting me off my ass, that is.

It was late July and everybody wanted a turn with the few baseballs that rotated in the yard. After sending my baseball off into the mix with Heywood, I plopped on my rear in the shade and unbuttoned my shirt. The ball I’d snuck in some years ago was signed—by who, I don’t know. The signature had been rubbed until it was just a black streak. That black streak was how I confirmed the ball returned to me, was my own. Didn’t want a sharpened toothbrush in between my ribs because I had someone else’s ball.

The cement chilled my back, the line of sun and shade a few feet above my head. My eyes floated idly over the other prisoners, watching as they formed groups around whatever interested them. I think at one point a group of four or five were arguing over what animal a small cloud most resembled. Holding a shielding hand over my brow, I looked up too. It looked like an elephant; anyone who said different was crazy.

Someone slid down the wall a few yards away from me. It was Andy, wrists resting on his upright knees. A lanky fella by genetics, he looked around average height when sitting and, subsequently, more approachable. He didn’t sit often. Sweat shined on his forehead and matted his hair down.

If I had to guess why I pushed to my feet, walked over to him, and dropped back down, I’d guess it was that small wave of his. It seemed almost like a subconscious reaction to my prying eyes. It didn’t take long in Shawshank for a man to develop a sense for prying eyes—it was a prickling of the skin around the neck. Like having a feather trace a noose’s circle. He felt the ghost of a noose and lifted his gaze to meet mine, and his hand jerked in a wave.

Once comfortable in my new position, having to re-adjust far too many times, I dipped my thumb and pointer into my breast pocket. The familiar weight of a rumpled pack lifted from my shoulders and fell into my hand. I plucked a cigarette out, fitted it behind my ear, and plucked two more out.

I offered one to Andy. “On the house,” I said when he hesitated.

He took it and nodded, inspecting first the cigarette then the prisoners milling about. He shifted; one leg now bent under the other like he was looking to stand up and walk away, his cunning plan of bumming a smoke from me complete. He didn’t stand, rather turned waiting eyes to me. I struck a match, the flame flaring and eating its way toward my fingertips. Holding it to the end of my cigarette, I inhaled as if through a straw, my shoulders slumping when I drew in nicotine. I tossed the matchbook to him.

With each puff of smoke I exhaled, I imagined I was blowing it into someone’s face. Sometimes a guard or inmate who’d recently pissed me off, but most of the time the Warden. If I closed my eyes, I could see it perfectly: The sour look on his face, bible clutched to his chest, indignation radiating from him in waves. It was the little things in prison life that kept you going. Blowing smoke into his face in my mind was what allowed me to duck my head and jump to his every command in real life.

The smell of burning wood reached my nose—the beautiful combination of a lit match and tobacco in the air was unparalleled. The smell of earth and sweat was overpowered in an instant. Burning wood and tobacco used to remind me of hunting trips with my dad. Now it just reminds me of the release from withdrawal. Andy flicked his wrist, flame extinguishing. I offered a smile, a small part of me hoping to see it returned.

“Nice day,” I said, for once feeling it was an adequate statement. I took another drag, and looked at Andy who did the same a moment later. I counted to ten, keeping the smoke in my lungs, letting the spongy organ soak up the sweet taste.

A hacking coughing drew my attention. It was the deep choke of a boy smoking his first cigarette. I’d had that cough when I was twelve, and I never looked back. Andy’s cheeks tinged pink, the back of his hand pressing tight against his lips. Each intake of breath was accompanied by a wheeze that would be common place among asthmatics. Fresh gulps of air were followed by more hacking.

I didn’t know if it was medically possible to cough up a lung, but if it weren’t, this would be the closest a person could come to it. He hunched forward, hiding his face. The open palm which had the cigarette snug between its fingers was splayed across his chest. Ash built on the end, the fire devouring paper and tobacco in its effort to burn his skin.

Slotting my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, I shuffled over to him, kicking up clouds of dust in my haste. I pressed against his collarbone, unfurling him. When his shoulder blades hit cement, I snatched the cigarette from his hand, flicking the ash far from us with practiced ease. Desperate gasps had slowed to deliberate, stuttering breaths.

“It’s okay,” I said, brushing hair away from his eyes and pushing his forehead back to get a good look at his face. “Just calm down, it’ll go away.” He was already calm, but I may not have only been giving the advice to him.

“I’ll take two packs,” he said, voice hoarse, amusement in his watering eyes.

I smiled, rolling back on my haunches. A few forceful coughs later, he was breathing easy. Our commotion had drawn a few curious glances, but nobody approached. A few fellas pointed and laughed, thwacking their friends on the shoulder to get their attention. But thank God nobody approached.

“’S good, ya know,” I said, positioning myself next to him again. “Not being addicted to this shit—it gives you a leg up. You can use them for trade, never smoking your currency away, not being willing to do anything to catch a whiff of second-hand smoke. ‘S good.”

“On the bright side,” he said, hand sifting through the dirt and rocks underneath us. His fingers lighted on a flat rock, thumbing circles on it. For someone whose hobby involved digging through dirt, his nails were oddly kempt. I’d noticed it before, and I would continue to notice it throughout our tenure at Shawshank State Prison.

It was easy being quiet with Andy. His presence didn’t demand words, and he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. The best way I could put it is this: I could hear birds when I was with Andy. 

But, sometimes, the birds were too shrill.

“Why is a dog like a tree?” I asked, turning to watch him, once again finding something deep inside my chest wanting to see him smile. “Because they both lose their bark when they die.”

It took a moment. I could see his college mind wondering if it actually heard what I said. Then, like the sun, he cracked a small smile, a chuckle making it out of his throat. It wasn’t the hearty laugh of Heywood or the fragile bark of Brooks. It was distinctly Andy. It was nice.

“That was something else,” he said, shaking his head.

Yard time drew to a close, the shadows on the ground elongated and towering. The sweat on my back was cold, sending a shiver up my spine. The other prisoners wrapped up their haphazard games of baseball where articles of clothing were bases and bats didn’t exist—just seemed like a game of catch with extra steps to me.

“They say,” I said, standing up and adjusting my hat. “I’m the best checkers player in Shawshank.” I drew a final puff of nicotine in before stomping the glowing embers into the ground.

Andy leveraged himself up too, brushing his pants off. “Is that so?”

“I bet I’ve played every sorry sod in here,” I said, glancing around at the inmates who were being round up to go back inside. A guard motioned us toward him. We went, hands in our pockets, legs swinging as we walked. “But I ain’t ever played you.”

He smiled again. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow’ll do.”

The journey from acquaintance to friend was well on its way after that. I can’t give all the credit to our smoke break, it was a collection of things that moved us on our way, isn’t it always? But when I think back to the start of our friendship, if I had to pick a moment, I think I’d pick this one. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here we find ourselves again. Me, with the fic about a great 90's movie; readers, not here because the fic is about a 90's movie.


End file.
